


Fill Me Up With Your Light/I'll Keep You From Burning

by DilynAliceBlake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Polyamory, magical au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:12:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6003766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DilynAliceBlake/pseuds/DilynAliceBlake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Look, I half blame Xanth, and half blame the fact that I have more inspiration to start stories than to finish them.  Most people have a Talent, a Skill of some sort or another which has both physical and mental manifestations in the real world.  Mycroft Holmes is cool under pressure, Sherlock Holmes is brilliantly bright, Lestrade has a strong heart, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Working with him is a risk,” Donovan said.  “He can’t control himself, and one day it’s going to blow up in all our faces.”

“It’s a useful skill Sally.  We need him on this, and I don’t want to hear another word from you about it.”  Lestrade’s tone was firm, though not overly harsh.  He noted the way Sally gripped her left arm, just like she always did when nervous about Sherlock’s involvement.  The D.I. didn’t blame her for her caution after what happened; he just wished she’d had that caution at the time.

Everyone working at the Yard knew to keep their distance from Sherlock Holmes.  When he had first shown up those handful of years ago, he had been positively luminescent, high out of his mind and firing off deductions at a rate nearly too fast to comprehend.  Lestrade had tried to approach him at the time, with the intent of angling his head to get a look at the man’s pupils. 

Sherlock had flung himself backwards in a way that, at the time, Greg had considered to be rather dramatic.  He’d keened on pretty quickly, though, to the fact that the way the man’s glow was flaring and wobbling was involuntary, and judging by the ominous crackling and fizzling, likely dangerous.  Sally, of course, had ignored Sherlock’s slew of stilted warnings and pleas not to be touched, and tried to muscle her way through the situation with sheer stubbornness and newfound authority, reaching for Sherlock just as that brilliant light surrounding him convulsed erratically in exactly the wrong way.

Sally sported a rather nasty looking burn scar on her arm, and directed her anger at her own thoughtlessness rather nicely at the easiest target; Sherlock.

Lestade knew that Sherlock’s skill was harsh.  It was abrupt and glaring and unrefined to the point of being offensive or even dangerous.  It was also dead useful, so far as Talents went.

Most people’s Talents weren’t as physically obvious as Sherlock’s was.  There was a barista at the local coffee spot who always made the perfect cuppa; coffee or tea.  She had beautiful chocolatey skin and starkly white freckles like a dusting of powdered sugar.  She never dropped or spilled anything, and when she worked the line was never too long.

Lestrade’s Talent could hardly be called that.  It had taken him quite some time to figure it out, and he had been a bit disappointed with it at first.  Lestrade’s Talent was his heart.  It was always plain on his face, and he loved the people who needed it.  Unfortunately, the people who needed love weren’t the best showing their appreciation for it, or admitting to that need to begin with.

Greg was rather happy with his talent now.  He had grown into it, and thought it was an honorable thing to have.  He liked being needed.


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson _abhorred_ his Talent.  If it would have been in any way conceivable he would have ignored it all together.  Unfortunately, his was something he had always had to hold under strict control. 

Left unattended, John Watson’s Talent would steal light.  He drank and drank and drank it, and it was never enough.  No matter how much light he took it wouldn’t satisfy him. 

Perhaps he could have lived with that, the annoying never ending craving, constant searching, if physical light had been all there was to it.  Unfortunately, it was more than that.  If he wasn’t careful, John would take the things light brought with it; siphoning warmth and energy too.

As a toddler he had darkened whatever room he was in completely; his temper tantrums could cause power outages for the whole street.  And anytime anyone tried to pick him up they would quickly put him right back down, shivering and sneering in distaste at the cold state of his skin.

Even though John had only been little at the time, his lack of control was still blamed as the source of everything awful about his and Harry’s childhoods.  His mother’s depression, his father’s drinking, Harry’s aggression.  All of it because there was this greed inside him that he couldn’t turn off.

John moved in with his Gran when his parents couldn’t stand him anymore.  He was twelve at the time, and had learned enough control that only about a foot of the area around him was encased in shadow.    John’s frumpy jumpers were for more than just show; he could never seem to get warm enough. John honed his Talent throughout his teen years by way of the fireflies in his gran’s back yard.  They were small enough to take some good deal of finesse, and their warm organic glow filled John up in a way that electricity couldn’t.

Luckily the ability to soak up heat and call shadow had been deemed dead useful for desert missions.  Those around John in Afghanistan had fondly referred to him as Cool Doc Watson.  John made sure to underrepresent his abilities, and not let on precisely the nature of his talent.

“Come on,” he said realistically, “Who’d want me for a flat mate?”  John’s thoughts lingered on the lights fading in and out with his consciousness, and the permeating cold of his hotel room.  He thought about the nightmares, and how sometimes in his sleep he managed to drink up all the heat in his dreary little one room housing arrangement.  Yet, Mike was grinning like the cat that got the cream.


	3. Chapter 3

Most people didn’t realize that the reason Sherlock’s “halo,” as his mother called it, was so unstable was because he struggled to keep such a damper on it.  He was smart, constantly observing, but much of his Skill had to do with _showing off_.   The real trouble was figuring out when it was okay to shine, so to speak.   Narrating everything had proven to be rather destructive, both physically and on relationships.

Specific and useful deductions didn’t so much _flare outwards_ as _dance around him_.  A really good mystery was as close to feeling in control as Sherlock got, and watching the intricate patterns of that sparkling light weave around him to illuminate the case, sometimes even illustrating whatever point he was making…

Well, it was a damned sight better than burying himself in drugs, that was for sure.

He still got carried away, of course.  Rushed off shining like a beacon, a clear target for any criminals to find. 

Even when he used his intelligence to lash out, Sherlock couldn’t _make_ his glow into a weapon.  It was about as useful a defensive tool as a gun you weren’t sure was loaded.  A neat intimidation tactic, but whether it could do any real harm was a tossup.  Listing things he observed about his surroundings had never helped Sherlock out of a locked basement, that was for sure.

If he hadn’t accidentally fried the circuitry on his phone once shouting something obvious, he would be convinced it could only damage _living_ things.  

Sherlock stuck to texting, now.

Keeping his emotions under control outside of The Work was a necessity.  The last thing he needed was another incident like Redbeard for Mycroft to hold over his head.  Caring was  _not_ an advantage.


	4. Chapter 4

John didn’t wear a cloak of shadow anymore.  In fact, except in those instances where his PTSD got the best of him and he latched on to the nearest lamp for comfort, there was no indication of what John could do with light.  No one really noticed during a surgery if he manipulated the beam focus and intensity, guiding it to illuminate this or that.  People were to busy trying to save lives. 

Playing with light helped, a little, but it was rather hollow.  Like drinking water to keep from being hungry.  There was some sort of substance missing from what he did, like that wasn’t his Talent’s intended purpose.

Aside from his body temperature being about ten degrees cooler than was usual, John Watson passed as perfectly normal.  It was an empty success.


	5. Chapter 5

Before the meeting of the future boys of Baker Street that chilly fateful day, we must take a moment to look back. 

Sherlock Holmes is quite the chemist, though he never actively attended many classes.  Instead, he did independent research, writing a few papers while he was at it, and could, in his college years, often be found at the campus library or lab.

On his way between the two buildings, many years before our actual story takes place, Sherlock was tripped by a rather playful Irish Setter by the name of Red Beard.  This dog belonged to an exchange student from Italy, a man by the name of Victor Trevor.

Victor Trevor had an odd Talent which made him a little bit more than a dog whisperer.  He could talk to dogs; or rather, bark at them.  You might think to understand and be understood by your loyal canine companion enough that fluent conversations could be held would be wonderous.  Well, believe it or not, barking at dogs can make you more than a bit of an outcast.

Enough of one, actually, that you may not even have heard enough gossip to have been warned away from the likes of Sherlock Holmes.

I’m not going to tell you their love story.  That’s not the romance you’re here for.  I will tell you that the most important thing in all the world to Victor Trevor was his dog, and that the unhappy ending Sherlock and Victor’s relationship suffered left scars, blame, guilt, and heartbreak.  It left resentment, and the makings of an addict.  But, sadly, it did _not_ leave a dog.

So now it’s some years later, not even yet a week after the meeting about to take place, and Victor Trevor still carries that unforgiving hatred in his heart.  It’s strong enough that, when faced with the success of a certain consulting detective pertaining to a certain set of serial suicides mentioned in his morning paper, a text got sent out via a number he never thought he would have cause to use.

“Dear Jim, Please will you fix it for me, to ruin Sherlock Holmes’ life.”


	6. Chapter 6

Molly Hooper is Sweet.   She never has to wear lipstick, because her lips and the inside of her mouth are a vivid cherry red.   She smells like cherries, and tastes like cherries, and is so ridiculously sweet it’s almost pitiable.  Or it would be, if Sherlock were above taking advantage of Molly’s Talent, if one could call it that.

He isn’t, though, and is pleased as plum to have regular access to the morgue at Bart’s.

Right now he is whipping a corpse with a riding crop, and Dr. Hooper’s only reaction to his eccentric aggression is to ask him if he’s had a bad day.

He has, a bit, but as soon as these cases get cleared up he will feel better.  There’s the one with the alibi, and he needs to remember to text later about the case with the brother and his ladder.

Molly’s so kind she even offers to bring him a coffee.


	7. Chapter 7

**a/n: hiya readers! i bet you're ready for some nice yummy johnlock :3**

 

Upstairs Sherlock measures and magnifies, at ease with the equipment that he knows his fluctuating aura can’t hurt.

At ease, that is, until Mike Stamford struts back in looking like a great smug bird-fed cat.

“Sherlock, this is an old friend of mine, John Watson.”

“No.”  Sherlock says, short and firm, immovable.

“I haven’t even mentioned anything yet!” Stamford argues.

“I said this morning that it was a shame I couldn’t split the rent on the Baker Street flat.  Now you’re back just after lunch with a companion clearly just home from military service somewhere sunny. 

Mike, I _cannot_ have a flatmate.”

Sherlock’s glow hasn’t done anything volatile just yet.  As he deduced Stamford’s companion, it had seemed to stretch lazily towards the man, but not fast enough or unstable enough to be cause for alarm.

“That’s extraordinary,” the soldier says, “How’d you know all that?”

Suddenly Sherlock is unsure.  “I, it, that’s my Talent.  I deduce people, situations.  See things others overlook, solve mysteries.”

“You’re a detective?  That’s brilliant.  What else can you tell about me?”

Even Victor, who had overlooked Sherlock’s oddness with surprisingly little exasperation, had never felt _positively_ about the fact that Sherlock could know his every secret at a glance.  John’s reaction was startling and new to the detective, and yet, somehow wondrous too.

“You-” Sherlock clear’s his throat, and decides that there’s little risk, since he was _asked_ to.  “You’re a doctor, a surgeon.  Your limp is psychosomatic, and your talent is…”  Sherlock squints, but he can see nothing, no clue or indication.  John laughs good-naturedly.  It doesn’t feel like mocking, even a little bit.

“Come closer,” he says.  “Please?  I’ll show you.”

Sherlock is nervous.  “It’s not safe,” he tries to warn, but John is already approaching.  And approaching, and then suddenly is right in his space, looking into his eyes with an impish sort of grin.

“You can touch me, if you want,” John says, and for a man who’s never been able to get within eighteen inches of someone reasonably safely (not counting his pompous icicle of a brother), it really isn’t surprising where Sherlock’s mind takes that statement.

He lifts a trembling hand to touch this John Watson’s chest, crinkling his nose in distaste at the frumpy jumper.  Then with an intensely loud _crackle_ from the light around Sherlock, the detective realizes what he managed to miss.  It’s much too warm outside for so many layers, and the Doctor doesn’t show even the teensiest bit of discomfort so close to Sherlock.

There is, of course, no proving anything until Sherlock deduces something.

“Can I see your phone?” he asks, and is embarrassed by how breathily those words escaped him.

A new slew of observations spill from Sherlock’s lips, but no matter how menacing his glow gets, it sinks harmlessly into John’s skin.  Then suddenly John asks “How?” and Sherlock explains, and with John’s guidance through the explanation all his extra focus that before had had nowhere to go is now on the man in front of him.

The audience to his genius.

John asks silently for permission for _something_ and Sherlock nods slightly, never more sure of anything in his life.  “Keep talking,” John whispers, like this is a spell and he’s unwilling to break it.

Sherlock does, running his mouth about John’s alcoholic brother and how he knew, and then-

It’s breathtaking.  Somehow, John is affecting Sherlock’s light, because it’s doing exactly what it needs to be to facilitate his reasoning, to showcase his deductions without hindering or letting them get out of hand.  Most of the light is wrapping around John, dimming around him, slipping into him until it’s nigh unnoticeable unless you already knew it should be there and know to follow its path.  What little isn’t making John give that megawatt grin (ha-ha) glows around the different parts of the phone as Sherlock mentions them.

“You missed something,” John says, and Sherlock can’t even bring himself to mind when John says something about a sister, because-

“You’re crying,” John sounds concerned.

“It’s not usually like that,” Sherlock’s voice is embarrassingly stuffy.  “How did you do that?”

“That’s what it wanted to do,” John’s explanation isn’t near comprehensive enough, but there’ll be time for that later, because like _hell_ is he letting this man get away.

“It was easier,” Sherlock says, “explaining it for you.”  He hadn’t felt nearly so impatient, so annoyed at having to explain at all.  Not when explaining with John there.  It was a dance of his full potential, his every atom seemingly singing a chorus of ‘ _at last_.’

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Mike says awkwardly, and makes a hasty exit.  John snorts.

“Don’t imaging he expected that, introducing us.” He seems amused.

“Yes, well.  Nevermind that.  Want to go look at a flat?”

“Oh god, yes.”


	8. Chapter 8

**a/n: oh look, it's my fave, mycroft.  uptight meany, i love him anyway.**

Mycroft Holmes is _cool under pressure_.  He is composed and well-mannered to the point of being _icy_ , and his skin, if one looks closely, is slightly tinted blue.

When he hears that his brother has taken a flat mate, he can scarcely believe it, because surely even Sherlock Holmes would not be so careless.

He isn’t certain what exactly is going on, because he can’t watch everything everywhere all the time, (much to his chagrin), but he knows that there is indeed someone walking around with Sherlock, and this deserves further investigation.

The warehouse they’re in is nearing zero degrees, but the man across from him smiles affably and seems not to mind, either the temperature or Mycroft’s attempts at intimidation.

“He’s dangerous,” Mycroft warns.

“He’s _brilliant_ ,” the man all but growls, and Mycroft wonders how Sherlock has won over this soldier’s loyalty to the point that he will defend him, after only a day.

He opens the book of notes.

“It says here that you can cool things down, and deepen shadows.  While I’m sure that’s true, I get the impression that you weren’t being wholly honest, Doctor.”

All the lights in the warehouse suddenly go off, and it’s so cold that if he were anyone else Mycroft’s teeth would be chattering.

“Mind your own business,” comes a threat from the dark, and by the time Anthea turns on the flashlight on her phone, the man is gone.  The lights do not come back on until the light bulbs are all replaced and the breakers flipped.  Mycroft add it on file.  It’s impressive, because the same is true for the rest of the block.  Poor Anthea, even being used to dressing for the chill, still caught a cold.


	9. Chapter 9

   Moriarty gets the message from Sherlock about meeting at midnight and groans.

   "Why does your friend have to be such a drama queen?" he asks.  "I get everything set up so he can hand over those plans nice and easy, and he wants me to wait for _hours_."

   John Watson is currently cuffed, gagged, and semtex'd, but Jim likes to imagine that he sympathizes with his plight.

   Moriarty gets a tickling feeling just under his ribcage, and reflects on the unfairness of life.  It doesn't matter that he's been playing this game for weeks trying to get his hands on the files in that USB stick.  He knows that he won't be able to manage for those few more hours.

   "Oh puppy," he says the John, "I almost apologise.  I really did mean for everyone to come out of this alive.  Unfortunately for all of us, I can be rather changeable."

   John has several hours to dread how foreboding that sounds while they wait for the self-designated midnight vigilante that is his flatmate.


	10. Chapter 10

   Jim Moriarty is and has always been changeable.  He can put on a role like it's a suit, and has never had a consistent favorite ice cream flavor.  There is no steadiness to his emotions and no guessing what will trigger them.

   He's made a name for himself being clever, dangerous, and unpredictable- And that's all anyone can say for sure about him.

   The whole thing leaves him feeling rather hollow, like he's just some vessel for whatever cosmic entity might be out there to pour different people into.

   He's done so many different things, following always such vastly different reasonings, that he doesn't dare think about his past.  He'd surely go insane from self loathing.

  Changeable, changeable, changeable.  Who is Moriarty? What are his goals?  He's just so very _changeable._


	11. Chapter 11

   Mycroft Holmes is rather taken with Greg Lestrade, but is also rather rubbish with people.  He consults with Molly Hooper on how best to ask him out, because he knows when something is beyond him and he needs to outsource.

   Then he consults with Molly on where they should eat, and what he should wear so as not to be over dressed.  Then he asks for her help during the date itself, but there's only so much texting he can do while on a date before it's considered impolite, so for the next date Molly sort of ends up invited, and before long all three of them are flirting over pasta.

   "We should do this again," Molly says, and Mycroft could have a third of his intellect and he would still likely be struck by how right she is.

   "Yes, I think we should," he agrees.  One chair to his left Lestrade smiles into his cup and thinks that if he had known what being divorced entailed he might have done it sooner.

   Then Mycroft gets an S.O.S. text from Sherlock, and all the of them are of in a hurry, because they know what sort of things Sherlock  _doesn't_ think it's necessary to call for help with, and none of them wanted to imagine what sort of danger had incited him to.


	12. Chapter 12

   Moriarty has just thrown the bruce-partington plans into the pool with flair when the door clambers open and three little pigs burst in.  Well, one pig, as in cop.  One highly ranking just this side of flustered government official, and one mouse of a morgue worker.

   "One move and a cerain little detective consultant will be very dead," he sings threateningly, and then someone has to go and move.

   Sebastion is a good second, as well as sniper, and doesnt take him at his word.  Jim is thankful, because he'll probably want Sherlock alive later, but he could care less about the inspector who's just been shot in the heart.

   "Well then, anyone else?" Jim asks, while Mycroft stands looking ashen.

   The room smell strongly of chlorine, but faint and getting stronger is the scent of cherries.  It grows more vivid by the second, and the morgue mouse opens her mouth to speak.

  "You are a very sad little man, you know that?  I thought I was the loneliest person in the world, but you?  You don't even have yourself for company, do you?  You hate yourself.  You hate everything.  You're just so full of these awful, awful feelings."

   She's walking closer as she talks but she isnt armed, and really, Molly is such a sweet little thing, there's no threat.  Moriarty signals Seb not to shoot.  He finds himself amused at her bravado, and wonders where her speech is going.

   "I can make it go away," she says, and Jim gets that tickling in his ribcage that means his ideals are shifting again.  He suddenly wants whatever it is she's offering, wants the constant dizzying fluctuation in himself to cease.  The smell of fruit is cloying, her lips are shining red red red.  She kisses him, and Jim has a moment to recognise the taste of arsenic.

  He has a moment to think "Kill them with kindness," and then " _Cherries_ ," before he can think of nothing.


End file.
